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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22354969">The Party Shop</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehaikubandit/pseuds/thehaikubandit'>thehaikubandit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Recorded during Season One, Statement Fic, The Stranger - Freeform, is this just an excuse to write horror stories based on my childhood?, maybe so, name crimes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 08:41:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,685</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22354969</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehaikubandit/pseuds/thehaikubandit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Statement of Nicola McDonald, regarding a gift she received as a child in an unnamed shop in Birmingham. Original statement given October 4th, 2014.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Party Shop</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>ARCHIVIST</strong>
</p>
<p>Statement of Nicola McDonald, regarding a gift she received as a child in an unnamed shop in Birmingham. Original statement given October 4th, 2014. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.</p>
<p>Statement begins.</p>
<p>
  <strong>ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)</strong>
</p>
<p>As a I child I always loved the days we went to the post office. Not, you understand, for the post office itself. The long queue of pensioners and frustrated people in suits didn’t interest me. Neither did the envelopes, the cards or even the toys. No, the reason I loved the post office was the joke shop next door.</p>
<p>It was a small shop with a twisting maze of shelves, crammed with tricks and costumes that now I’d consider junk. At the time it was heaven. I’d leave my mother to the post office and explore the shelves until she came to fetch me. The uninterested woman who worked behind the counter never seemed to mind. It wasn’t like there was anything particularly valuable to steal or damage. I’d imagine myself in the cheap wigs or make myself jump at the sight of a plastic spider. Mostly though, I’d stare at the masks.</p>
<p>The masks felt like something from another world amidst the cheap plastic, hung reverently on the wall behind the small counter. They were delicately painted. Their white faces were stark against the bright colours of the fabrics or feathers that surrounded the porcelain, and all of them shone with gold. My favourite was covered in swirling patterns of gold and purple. Pleated silk in the same purple framed the face. I’d lose myself in the dancing shapes and details. There were some days when I felt I’d only just stepped into the shop before my mother came to find me.</p>
<p>The day it mattered, she came too late. There were a lot of parcels to be sent on this particular day. It was getting close to Christmas, the one just after my ninth birthday, and none of our relatives lived nearby. Knowing that I had plenty of time, I went to play first. The stranger must have entered the shop while I was hidden among the shelves because when I decided to come and look at the masks, there was someone at the counter.</p>
<p>This in itself was obviously not unusual. It was a shop. What was unusual was the long, black, hooded coat they wore in the summer heat. They were also wearing black leather gloves, their hands resting on the counter while they spoke to the woman who worked there. For the first and only time that I could remember she seemed interested in what was happening. More than that, she seemed afraid. It was this that made me stick to my unseen position, hidden behind a rack of discounted costumes.</p>
<p>I tried so hard to be quiet. But it was a dusty shop, and a feather boa tickled my nose. I sneezed, and the stranger turned. I couldn’t see their face under the shadow of the hood, but I knew they were looking straight at me.</p>
<p>“And who do we have here?” The voice was sing song, with a hint of malice to it. The kind of voice you’d hear from a bully in a playground, chanting taunts and rhymes.</p>
<p>“She comes in sometimes to look at the masks,” said the woman behind the counter.</p>
<p>“Is that so?” asked the stranger.</p>
<p>They bent down to my height and I caught a glimpse of a pale face, bone white and as perfectly smooth as the porcelain masks. </p>
<p>“Which is your favourite?”</p>
<p>I raised a shaking hand to point at the purple mask, painfully aware of my heart beating in my ears.</p>
<p>Whatever would have followed was interrupted by the bell as the door opened. I’d never been so glad to see my mother in my entire life.</p>
<p>“Nicola,” she said. “It’s time to go.”</p>
<p>The stranger straightened and turned to face her.</p>
<p>“What a lovely daughter you have,” they told my mother. “And with such a pretty name.”</p>
<p>I said nothing, running to hide behind my mother’s leg.</p>
<p>“Here,” said the stranger, pulling out a box from inside their coat. “It’s not the same as the other masks, but I’m sure it’s perfect for a girl like her.”</p>
<p>My mother protested, saying that we couldn’t and there was no need. In hindsight she may have been as frightened as I was. Then again, perhaps she was only being polite. But it didn’t matter. I was handed that small, worn cardboard box. Inside was a domino mask.</p>
<p>Unlike those on the wall it was made of leather, not porcelain. The black leather had been painted in red and white, a harlequin pattern, but this was worn around the edges and the eyes. It was nothing like the beautiful masks I stared at and even looking at the thing made me feel sick with fear. But somehow, I still wanted to wear it. It seemed to be made just for me.</p>
<p>“Say thank you for the lovely gift,” said my mother. So I thanked the stranger and we left.</p>
<p>I carried the box with outstretched arms, frightened of it being too close to my body. When we got home I taped the lid shut and hid the thing as far under my bed as it would go. I didn’t trust myself not to try it on.</p>
<p>And for more than ten years it stayed under my bed. It was only a month or so ago that I found it again, cleaning my old room in preparation to move out. I’d forgotten that it even existed. Touching the old sticky tape and dusty cardboard I laughed at how well I’d sealed it. A young kid scared by a kind gift from a stranger. So, I opened it. Obviously I regret that now.</p>
<p>The worn leather looked worse than I remembered but felt warm and smooth to the touch. A little of the red paint flaked away and coloured my finger. I rubbed at my fingertip with my thumb and watched it stain my skin. I don’t remember lifting the mask to my face, though I must have done.</p>
<p>The mask burned my face with a heat I could never have imagined. I’d once burnt my hand on a hot pan while cooking, badly enough that I’d needed to be driven to hospital, so I thought I knew what it felt like to be burned. But this was worse. And when suddenly my face ceased to hurt, that was somehow more terrifying than the pain. I could feel liquid running down my cheeks, and I couldn’t tell if it was tears or blood or something else entirely. I raised both hands to the mask and pulled.</p>
<p>I’ll never forget the sound that it made. That soft, wet, squelching noise like pulling your foot out of thick mud, but so much worse. I ripped the mask away from my face and felt my skin go with it. Flinging the thing across the room, I fell to my knees, retching in fear and pain. The very worst part was that despite all of the pain, and what I could now clearly see was blood covering my fingers, all I wanted was to put the mask back on.</p>
<p>My mother came running in, once again too late. The damage had been done. She says that I was screaming, I couldn’t say one way or another. I’d clamped my hands over my ears in an attempt to ignore my desire, my need, to put mask back on. I could hear the sing song voice of the stranger.</p>
<p>
  <em>“It’s perfect for a girl like her.”</em>
</p>
<p>The last month has been a blur of surgeons and psychologists. I don’t want to go into the details, I’ve given you their reports. They didn’t believe me when I told them what happened. They think it’s self-inflicted. But I felt like you’d believe me. So that’s why I’m telling you. And I feel like you’ll know what to do with this. Don’t open the box. Don’t look at it. I had to close my eyes to touch it, just so I didn’t put it back on. I don’t think I’m strong enough to hold out much longer. So take it. Please.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>ARCHIVIST</strong>
</p>
<p>Statement ends.</p>
<p>For obvious reasons there is very little we can do to confirm the identity of this “stranger” who gave Ms McDonald the mask. The store in which she claimed to have received the mask closed down four years ago after the owner retired. The business was registered to one Mary Wallington under the name “The Party Shop”. She appears to have moved to Spain after retiring, and we can find no current contact information for her.</p>
<p>Sasha did manage to contact Ms McDonald who has had a number of reconstructive surgeries and is currently studying nursing in Sheffield. She had no further information to provide us and told Sasha that everything was either in her statement or the medical reports she provided.</p>
<p>The file does contain extensive psychological and surgical reports from the time. The conclusion was that Ms McDonald glued the mask to her own face, and then tore it away in a fit of distress. The physical evidence supports this, though it does suggest that the glue used had unusual, caustic properties. Perhaps she tried to remove it with something acidic. There is no reason to believe that the mask was anything more than a strange gift and that this incident was a stress triggered event brought on by the anxieties around leaving home.</p>
<p>Lewis from Artefact Storage has confirmed that they have the mask as part of their collection. Apparently, despite being carefully encased inside clear plastic resin, the paint and general condition of the mask has deteriorated since its donation. There are also no longer any remnants of Ms McDonald’s skin, which he assures me was not removed during the preservation process. However trapped as it is inside a large, clear cube, it is unlikely anyone will be wearing the mask again soon.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wrote this for class and now I finally have the marks back you can all read it! I hope you liked it, and any comments would be appreciated more than you know!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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